About Face (20 page)

As I mentioned, Perry knew about my secret research quarters. She supported it 100 percent. She would tell me I deserved to get the answers I was looking for. Maybe she also felt me getting the answers I needed would be our ticket back to New York City.

N
EW
Y
ORK
C
ITY
2013

We roll up to Del Posto.

“Brutus, I appreciate your services tonight.”

I hand him another fifty over his shoulder.

“Will you be needing me again tonight, sir?” he asks as he takes the bill.

“It has been a pleasure, and I wish you good luck. But, no, I won't.”

I enter the restaurant, which is packed. The place is sophisticated but equally warm, exuding seriousness while at the same time feeling lighthearted, friendly.

I look at my wrist—8:01 p.m. A hostess leads me to the table as everyone else has just arrived. We pass the crowded bar area and enter the main dining room. The large, wide-open space is well lit yet cozy, and dominated by earth tones. A wrought-iron gated balcony, accessed by a dramatic staircase, hangs overhead with even more diners. The windows are covered with long, flowing, red velvet curtains. Tables—of which there isn't an empty one—are spaced just right, enough room for privacy, yet an overall feeling of festivity. From the moment my nostrils get inside they're filled with
a mixture of savory aromas. Sauces, fine wines, olives—it's like I blinked and ended up in Rome.

I reach the table where everyone has just been seated. From our end, it's Cobus and Arnon; from GlassWell, it's Brand, Julia, a couple other members of the leasing contingent, and a few of the in-house attorneys. Scattered conversations are taking place. There will be a lot of work discussed at this meal, but from the number of cocktails already on the table, it appears everyone is also looking to unwind.

“Missed you this afternoon and evening,” Cobus says to me.

Though Cobus and I are close—we're professional close, not personal close. This, no doubt, is one of the reasons our relationship has worked so well. I know the basics of Cobus's life before de Bont Beleggings: He was born and raised in the northwestern Netherlands city of Leiden, attended the University of Leiden where his father was a professor of economics. His mother worked for the city; they were a working-class family. I also know that Cobus had a gift for picking stocks, and what started as a one-man investment shop focused on the financial markets, became a portfolio with 75 percent of its holdings in commercial real estate. According to Cobus, by chance he ended up in an office building deal as a favor to a friend and because the ROI—Return On Investment—potential as well as the fact, unlike stocks, real estate was so tangible, he was hooked. That's as far as my knowledge about Cobus goes. I've never pressed, because Cobus makes no secret of the fact he likes to keep his personal and professional lives separate—something he should only know how much I appreciate. While we spend most of our lives together—all days and many nights—for business, we don't socialize personally aside from inviting the other to special family occasions or milestones.

Having been so close with my partners in my first life, have I always found his desire for such secrecy odd? Yes. Do I care? Certainly not. Because it has given me the green light to be just as secretive.

Cobus motions to the open chair to his right, between him and
Julia who is chatting with the gentleman on her right. “We have a lot to catch up on. How are you feeling?”

“Much better. Thanks. Just one of those things.”

As I move to take my seat, I can't help but to notice Julia's lustrous hair. I can only see her from the back. To my surprise, the first thing I feel is how much I'd like to see her from the front.

Just as my ass is about to hit the seat two—not one, but two—white-gloved waiters appear out of nowhere to assist with the chair. Before I can say thank you, I'm offered a cocktail.

“Belvedere, rocks, twist. Thanks.”

I return my attention to Cobus. I need to stay in character. I need to remain—in his eyes—driven by our mission.

“So how was your meeting with Elman?”

“Enlightening,” Cobus responds, his voice a few decibels lower than normal. “The more we discussed the retail tenants, and the fact their leases all roll over so close together—”

Roll over. Expire.

“The more I realized this isn't the negative we've been factoring into our projections. In terms of worst-case scenario potential releasing downtime and so forth. In fact—quite the opposite. I see an opportunity we've been missing.”

“Is that right?”

Cobus throws a large swallow of neat scotch back.

“It is.”

“And what opportunity might that be?”

“Terminal five.”

“Terminal what?”

“Terminal five, Ivan. Heathrow. British Airways.”

“What about it?”

“Remember our conversation eighteen months ago? When we were looking into redeveloping the ABN AMRO building in City Centre? What we could do with the retail?”

I think for a second.

“The Soho House of retail,” I say.

“The exact same words you used then.”

British Airways' terminal at Heathrow, Terminal 5, is not your typical airport. It is a brand-snob's paradise with shop after shop of names like Cartier, Bulgari, and Prada. If you want to eat—forget Burger King or a hot dog. More like Caviar House or famed sushi haven Itsu.

“This particular submarket of Manhattan is highly trafficked and apparently starving for an infusion of retail energy. In Elman's words, the area has become a bit stale. It's prime for the strategy you outlined.”

“Retail exclusivity unlike anything the market has ever seen before,” I move forward. “We market the project as a retail opportunity that's half brand awareness, half company showpiece. We divide the space into seven or eight equal-size units to the inch, and invite the top global brands to make their pitch for why they most deserve a unit.”

“The Patek Philippes and Bentleys and Chanels of the world,” Cobus jumps in. “A fine mixture of some of the globe's classiest brands. Each, once accepted based on their pitch, given a whitewashed shell to bring to life that highlights both their brand as well as their artistic vision as a firm. Each boutique becomes part marketing piece, part art gallery.”

“The deal is the same for each,” I come back at him. “Same per-square-foot price across the board. The number a premium, unlike rents previously seen in this particular market based on the exclusivity. Terms run no longer than twelve or twenty-four months, thus incentivizing tenants to keep their game up. And we include a clause that requires a new look every six months forcing the brands to keep their creative juices flowing.”

“The Soho House of retail,” Cobus reiterates. “Incredible jumping off point buzz, followed by the property becoming a retail staple in Manhattan.”

“All the while setting a new standard for retail rental numbers, not to mention perhaps a whole new model we can utilize back in Amsterdam,” I add. “Or anywhere else we look to conquer.”

The waiter arrives with my drink.

Julia's eyes turn to it as it's placed on the table.

“Huh,” she says. “I didn't realize vodka coated an unsettled stomach.”

Her eyes move to me. I pick the cocktail up, slide a little through my lips. It feels cool as it lines my throat. My eyes join hers.

“Dutch thing,” I respond.

“Is that right?” she asks, the corner of her mouth curling up.

Julia had changed from earlier. Tonight she's still classy, elegant, but having a bit more fun with it. She's traded in her Armani suit for a tailored, beige silk, Burberry Maxine trench dress that stops just above the knee. It has a neckline that stops just short of being described as plunging. On her feet are Burberry patent tweed T-strap platform sandals that no doubt put her head in the clouds.

“It is. For headaches—Rugby.”

“Really,” she replies with a cute giggle, “and let me guess what rugged Dutch men do for a sore throat—you gargle Tabasco.”

“Nope—but close. We swallow sand.”

More giggling.

“Nice.”

The flash drive.

I need to know what's on it.

“I'll be right back,” I say to Julia, as I throw back the lion's share of my remaining cocktail. “I need to look at something before I forget. I'll only be a minute. Perhaps you can order me another?”

“You got it,” Julia says, knocking back some rosé champagne.

I jump up from the table.

“I'll just be a minute,” I say to Cobus as I place a hand on his shoulder.

I lean in to Arnon, who is nose deep in his glass of Chianti.

“Arnon—you have your laptop handy? I need to access our cloud. There's a piece of language in the Purchase Agreement with regard to the retail I'd like to double-check…”

The perfect excuse for Cobus's ears to perk up, considering the discussion we'd just had. Arnon, who's been working like a dog to get this deal handled, didn't even look at me. He was enjoying his
glass of wine too much, no doubt pondering what he was going to eat for dinner. Without a word, he handed me his coat-check ticket, his way of telling me to get his laptop from his checked briefcase.

I enter the bathroom. Big restaurants call for big restrooms. I grab a stall and close the door behind me. I sit on the toilet and boot the computer. Then I attach the flash drive.

I have no idea what to expect—but certainly not this. There's nothing but audio files on the drive. Shit. The last thing I can do, having no idea what I'm about to hear, is let it rip in a crowded bathroom with steady traffic.

Something I saw on my way in pops into my brain. I unlock the black metal door and poke my head out. At the end of the row of sinks, by the wall, there's an iPod with Apple earbuds wrapped around it. I walk over to the attendant, an old-timer who probably envisioned a beach sipping piña coladas for this period of his life, not wearing a tux to hand paper towels to the entitled for their dripping hands.

“Might I borrow your earphones?” I ask, gesturing to the iPod with a twenty. “I don't even need to leave the bathroom, and I'll only be a few minutes.”

I close the stall door again and retake my seat on the toilet. I'm hesitant about the thought of putting this guy's earphones in my ears, but don't have much choice. With toilet paper I do the best cleaning I can of them, then stick the proper end in the machine and the buds into my ears. The files I notice are cataloged by dates, the farthest one out only six weeks earlier. I play the first one.

“Yes, yes, of course—but that's all irrelevant,” says a guy with an Italian accent. “The issue is not if back taxes are required, it is how much. And we're not talking seven digits. More likely eight.”

“Eight digits as in ten million or as in ninety million?” a second voice responds.

I recognize voice number two.

Ryan Brand.

“Not ninety. But not ten. Either way, it isn't exactly the kind of
unforeseen line item that we can just absorb without serious consequences.”

“When will you know the damage?”

“We don't know. We haven't gotten that far yet. The full forensic process still has a couple weeks to go. After that, we'll be given the bill.”

There's a pause.

“Look, I understand your predicament. I do. But you need to realize we have serious financial considerations here as well,” Brand comes back. “Our portfolio has its strong points, but it also has projects such as the Waterpoint that happens to be a one-point-five-million-square-foot financial district property that's bleeding. Lately, it seems that for every Five Eleven Madison Avenue—one of our best—there's a Seven Fifty-Eight Third Avenue, a building I have dreams about blowing up myself. We're all running businesses here. In every case, it's a give and take.”

A little more banter and this call ended. I move on to the next.

“So—any word?”

“Not yet. But seems like we've been spending every waking second feeding them documents and records. Between appeasing them and trying to actually run a business—anyway—shouldn't be much longer.”

Brand and the mystery Italian again.

Pretty benign conversation, until: “You know, I heard this tax thing isn't your only current problem,” Brand says.

“What does that mean?”

“It means that if we're going to do this dance, we need to be up-front with one another. There's a way for both of us to get where we need to go here.”

“I am nothing but up-front with you, Ryan.”

“Right. So there's nothing to the potential civil suit aimed at you swirling in your circles. That all your employees—not just in Manhattan but in your other cities as well—are looking to come at you for—”

“There won't be any civil suit. I'd be careful of listening to
everything you hear, especially when it comes to me. People love to talk, make shit up. You know that.”

“My sources seem—”

“Sources, please. Pffft. Sources, sources, please. What fucking sources? Someone like Soto? I know you two—”

“Not Soto.”

“Then who?”

“Doesn't matter. What matters is that—what matters, like I said, is that we work together here. And that means being honest with one another.”

Fuck.

Who's the mystery Italian?

The next conversation is worthless. I look at my watch. It's been about six minutes. I move to number four. Also more of nothing. Next is number five.

“They've completed the audit. Not pretty,” says the Italian.

“How much?” asks Brand.

“Twenty-nine million.”

Brand sighs.

“Wow.”

“Sorry, Ryan, but I don't think I'll be able to dance with you this go-round.”