Strategic Moves (2 page)

“Make it three,” Eggers said to the waiter, “and let me see the list of special wines.”

Stone had seen the list of special wines, but he had never once ordered from it, because the wines started at $500 a bottle.

“Well,” Dino said, raising his glass again, “I’m happy I could be here on this special occasion.”

“Dino,” Eggers said, “you’ve done Stone many favors on our behalf over the years, so I’m happy you could be here, too.”

“Feel free to add me to the bonus list,” Dino said wryly.

“Only should you die in our service,” Eggers said pleasantly.

“I figured,” Dino replied.

Eggers opened the wine list, glanced at it, then closed it. “Order something that will go well with a Château Pétrus 1975,” he said, opening his menu.

Stone turned to the waiter, who was braced beside the table, holding his pad and pencil ready. “I want one of Barry’s secret steaks, medium rare,” Stone said, “and I’ll start with the French green bean salad, hold the peppers, use truffle oil.”

“Same here, rare,” Dino said.

“Make it three,” Eggers echoed, “and mine medium.”

The waiter dematerialized.

“Tell me,” Eggers said to Stone, “have you figured out why Jim Hackett was murdered?”

“I’ve never said this to anyone before,” Stone replied, “but I am under the constraint of the British Official Secrets Act and am, therefore, unable to respond to your question.”

“You’re shitting me,” Eggers said.

“I shit you not,” Stone replied. “You will recall that my client, at that time, was an arm of Her Majesty’s Government. They made me sign the Act.”

More specifically, Stone’s client had been a lovely redhead, who also happened to be the head of MI6, the foreign arm of British Intelligence.

“And,” Eggers said, “I perceive that your work for them resulted in the resignation and arrest of the British foreign secretary and the home secretary.”

“I cannot either confirm or deny your perception,” Stone said, “but just between the three of us, I would be very much surprised if those two gentlemen ever came to trial.”

“I suppose, if that happened, too much embarrassing information would come to light,” Eggers said.

“That is what I suppose, too,” Stone replied, “though no one has said as much to me. The government managed to keep it out of the British newspapers by employing the Official Secrets Act.”

“It made the
New York Times
,” Eggers said.

“All copies of which were banned for sale that day in the UK,” Stone said. “I don’t think that sort of thing has happened since the abdication of Edward the Eighth.”

“I’m glad your name was kept out of it,” Eggers said. “The firm would not have liked that sort of publicity. Our London office has too many clients who might have been embarrassed by your participation.”

“I’m glad, too,” Stone said. “Believe me.”

Dinner arrived, and the bottle of Pétrus, which Eggers tasted with some ceremony. “We’ll drink it,” he said to the waiter, and they did.

Stone took the elevator down from the third-floor bedroom of his Turtle Bay town house and walked into his ground-floor offices. He had inherited the house from a great-aunt and had done much of the restoration work himself. He walked down to the office of his secretary, Joan Robertson, and handed her his bonus check. “Get this into the account, please, and send the IRS the taxes.”

Joan nodded, then looked at the check. “WOW! What is this for?”

“It’s my year-end bonus,” Stone said.

“They’ve never given you a year-end bonus before,” Joan pointed out.

“I brought them the Strategic Services account,” he said. “Eggers liked that. By the way, write yourself a check for ten thousand; I think you’re entitled to a year-end bonus, too.”

“Yes, sir!” Joan said, turning to her computer.

“I’m going to a memorial service for Jim Hackett in a little while, so I may not be here when you get back. I’ll call you later.”

“Got it,” Joan said.

Stone walked back to his office and began reading correspondence.

 

 

Jim Hackett’s memorial service was held at a small Episcopal church on Park Avenue. As he entered, Mike Freeman, Hackett’s successor at Strategic Services, beckoned him to a front pew.

The priest made some rambling remarks about Hackett, then turned the pulpit over to Mike Freeman, who spoke movingly of his long relationship with Hackett, who had mentored him and had made him number two at the firm.

The service ended, and Freeman said to Stone, “I’m giving a lunch at the Four Seasons for our branch managers, and I’d like you to be there. Come ride with me.”

Stone got into a Mercedes with Freeman and two other men, who were introduced to him as the heads of the London and Tel Aviv offices. They lunched in a private dining room, and much drink was taken. Stone held back on the wine, wanting to keep a clear head and to remember as many of the names as he could.

When the dishes had been taken away, Mike Freeman stood and addressed the group.

“Gentlemen, Strategic Services is not a publicly traded company; it was owned in its entirety by Jim Hackett, who in his will has left me twenty-five percent of the stock and each of you two percent of the stock.”

There were murmurs of surprise in the group, and they burst into applause. Stone looked around the table and counted twelve noses, not including himself. If the gift of stock applied to him, then the branch managers now owned twenty-six percent of the stock.

“The remaining stock of the company will be owned by the Hackett Foundation, and the board of directors will control how it is voted. The new directors are Derek Barnes, head of our London office, Jake Green, head of Tel Aviv, and Bill Chu, head of Hong Kong. Stone Barrington is our corporate counsel, and I am chairman and CEO. I will also perform the duties of my previous position as COO. Each of the directors will have one vote; I will have two, and I will vote the foundation’s stock.

“That is the new structure, and each of you will run his local office as in the past, subject to budget constraints and the will of the board. I am grateful to all of you for attending Jim’s memorial; none of you had to come. I know that many of you have airplanes to catch this afternoon and evening, so we will end this meeting now and go our separate ways.”

The men got up from their seats, spent a few minutes saying goodbye to each other and Freeman, then everyone departed.

“Ride with me,” Freeman said to Stone, and they got back into the Mercedes.

“I was very surprised to be included in the gift of stock,” Stone said.

“Jim thought highly of you, Stone, from our first tennis match. He admired the way you played against him, the fact that you were not intimidated. As you will recall, Jim was a very intimidating tennis player.”

“I was hanging on by my fingernails,” Stone said.

“He also admired how quickly you mastered the Citation Mustang.” Hackett had suggested during their acquaintance that Stone learn to fly the airplane.

“I was glad of the opportunity to learn a new airplane,” Stone said.

“I’m delighted to hear that, because Jim left you the Mustang in his will. It was his personal property.”

“You’re kidding!” Stone said.

“I am not, and I have a proposition to offer you. Strategic Services has bought a hangar at Teterboro and we have on order a CitationJet 4, which will be delivered shortly. We would like to continue to use the Mustang for business flights of less than a thousand miles, and if you will consent to that, we will offer you space for your airplane in our new hangar, and we will continue to make the payments on the maintenance programs covering the airplane. Also, we’ll have an in-house mechanic at the hangar for smaller maintenance jobs, and one of the company pilots will fly the Mustang up to the Cessna Service Center at Newburgh, New York, for periodic inspections. The firm would also like to buy your old Jetprop,” he said. “We’ll pay whatever you paid for it.”

“I am delighted to accept,” Stone said.

“You’ll always have first call on the Mustang,” Freeman said. “If you’d like your old tail number on the Mustang, we’ll have the change made for you.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“I’m also happy to tell you that I am assigning the remainder of all our legal work to Woodman & Weld, where we would like you to join Bill Eggers in supervising it.”

“Thank you very much, Mike. Have you told Bill yet?”

“We spoke on the phone this morning; he was very pleased.”

The car drew up in front of Strategic Services’ building on East Fifty-seventh Street.

“The car will take you back to your office,” Freeman said. “By the way, would you like an office in our building?”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Stone said.

“We’ll reserve my old office for you, on the occasions when you’re in the building,” Freeman said.

The two men shook hands, and the car took Stone home.

Stone went into his office and sank into his chair. He had just had the best twenty-four hours of his life, and he was still stunned. He was now a stockholder of Strategic Services, he had a new airplane, and he had not only his bonus of the night before but he would have cash for the sale of his old airplane to the company. What more could he ask for in this lifetime?

The phone rang, and Joan buzzed him. “Bill Eggers,” she said.

Stone picked up the phone. “Hello, Bill.”

“I had a call from Mike Freeman this morning,” Eggers said.

“I heard.”

“Then you know we’re getting all their business?”

“I heard.”

“You and I will work closely to supervise it,” Eggers said.

“I heard.”

“And I hear you have a new airplane.”

“I heard.”

“Is that all you can say?”

Stone sighed. “Bill, I can hardly speak. I’m just letting it all sink in.”

“You do that,” Eggers said, and hung up.

Stone buzzed Joan.

“Yes?”

“Please book me a table at Elaine’s at nine.”

“I’m afraid you have plans for this evening.”

“What?”

“It’s Herbie Fisher’s wedding reception at the Hotel Pierre, at seven, dinner to follow.”

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes, and remember, Herbie is your second-biggest client.”

Stone groaned. Herbie Fisher was a royal pain in the ass, one of those unfortunate people who never did anything right. Herbie had won a big number in the lottery a while back and had offered Stone a million-dollar retainer to handle all his legal affairs. Stone had been in a financial bind at the time, and in a weak moment he had accepted the money. “How much would it cost me to buy my way out of representing him?” he asked Joan.

“You couldn’t afford it,” Joan said, and hung up.

Stone arrived at the Pierre late and, consulting the list of private rooms, was surprised to see that Herbie’s wedding reception was in the Grand Ballroom. Stone made his way there and found an acquaintance, Peter Duchin, at the piano, leading a full orchestra. He stopped by the bandstand.

“Hey, Stone,” Duchin said.

“Evening, Peter. Who the hell is paying for all of this?”

“The father of the bride, of course.” Duchin nodded toward a couple dancing past the bandstand. “Jack Gunn, the financier.” Gunn was a handsome man in his sixties, who was dancing with a much younger woman.

Stone thanked the bandleader and made his way to the bar. Suddenly, Herbie Fisher was at his elbow, dressed in white tie and tails and towing his new wife.

“Hi, Stone,” Herbie shouted over the din. “This is my wife, Stephanie.”

“How do you do, Stephanie,” Stone said. “I wish you both every happiness.” Privately, Stone felt that little happiness was in store for the couple. Herbie’s last fiancée had taken a dive off the terrace of the Park Avenue penthouse Herbie had bought with his lottery winnings.

“I’ve heard a great deal about you from Herbie, Stone,” the young woman said. “I hope we’ll be good friends.”

Stone thought she sounded quite normal for someone who had just married Herbie Fisher. “May I have this dance, Mrs. Fisher?” he asked.

“I’d be delighted,” Stephanie replied.

Stone led her to the dance floor and they danced. Stephanie was brunette and small, around five-two, Stone thought, without the heels. “How did you and Herbie meet?” he asked her.

“At P.J. Clarke’s, at the bar,” she replied. “I had just come back from a year abroad after graduating from Smith.”

“Are you going to have a career?” he asked.

“I’m joining my father’s firm after the honeymoon,” Stephanie replied. “I’ll be working as a trader, to start.”

“Are you his heir apparent?”

“I am.”

“I hope you’ll take charge of Herbie’s money,” Stone said. “He can be rather impulsive in the way he spends it.”

“Oh, I already have,” she replied, laughing, “and just in time, too.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Herbie has such a good heart,” she said, “but no head for figures, unless they’re female. I’m going to make him a rich man.”

“I thought he was already rich,” Stone said.

“He’s down to his last ten million after the lottery win,” she said. “In my family, that’s not rich—that’s slightly well-off. I’ve put him on an allowance, and I’m redecorating the apartment with my own money and some family things.”

“I’m glad to hear that, too,” Stone said, remembering what the apartment had looked like on his only visit there.

“Oddly enough, Herbie has very good taste in art. We’ve already bought some pictures he chose. He’s not so good on furnishings and fabrics, though.”

“Herbie has very good taste in wives, too,” Stone said.

She laughed again. “Thank you, Stone. By the way, I’ve paired you with my aunt at dinner, my mother’s recently widowed sister, Adele. You’re at table number one, with us.”