The Insiders (5 page)

“Let’s go back to Garvey,” Wilson said, opening one of the files. “What was his excuse for crossing the line?”

“Expensive art, lavish estates, a four-hundred-foot yacht, and beautiful women depleted his wealth. After Fielder & Company terminated its relationship with him, he began implementing a combination of bribes, price-fixing, and a new version of stock pooling to keep a ninety-day cycle of volatility going. He was successful for more than eighteen months. Like clockwork, AikoChem’s stock climbed to over twenty dollars and then slowly dropped to below ten dollars every ninety days or so. Trading volume stayed at over two million shares per day for more than a year. But rumors began to circulate that AikoChem’s pattern of volatility was being illegally induced. The institutional investors and professional traders who’d been playing the cycle pulled out. AikoChem’s stock plummeted to four dollars a share and trading volume dropped below 25,000 shares a day. By that time, Garvey had already cashed out and was humbly acknowledging to the business press that it was time for him to step down as CEO.”

“So he got away with it?”

“That’s right. Great lawyering, savvy lobbying, and lots of institutional investors capitalizing on AikoChem’s cycle convinced the SEC to drop its investigation. Garvey pulled off the perfect charade. And of course, all of your father’s clients were watching.”

“Any one of these clients could have shot my father, just to keep him quiet,” Wilson said.

“The White Horse retreat was planned for them. Your father wanted to halt all illegal practices among current and former clients. He threatened to expose anyone who would not conform. I warned him against having the retreat, but he insisted. He believed the abuses were his fault and he was determined to stop the escalation. ‘Never be afraid to correct a mistake, no matter how big,’ was all he said. It was a favorite quote from his grandfather,” Daniel said. In an uncharacteristic show of emotion, he muttered, “I should have done more to dissuade him from holding the retreat.”

Wilson leaned forward frowning at Daniel. “What do you expect to accomplish by feeding me bit by bit?”

“Your father gave me strict instructions to share this information only if you requested or needed it. That’s what I’m doing, Wilson.”

Wilson closed his eyes, taking a moment to evaluate what he was about to say. He wasn’t exactly sure why he was choosing to trust Daniel and his firm—maybe it was his father’s trust, or Daniel’s adeptness in handling the Sun Valley police, or the sincerity Wilson sensed in him. Daniel’s loyalty was now a life preserver in a sea of doubt. He hoped he wouldn’t regret his decision.

“I want to distance myself and the family from my father’s business affairs as quickly as possible, starting with signing off on the merger with KaneWeller,” Wilson said.

“Good,” Daniel exhaled a sigh of relief. Guiding Wilson to make the right moves was what he’d promised Charles and he always delivered on his promises. It was the least he could do for Charles Fielder—the best client he’d ever known. “I’m meeting with KaneWeller’s attorneys in the morning. Can you come to a closing tomorrow afternoon?”

“Yes,” Wilson said. “I want you to liquidate my father’s holdings as quickly and discreetly as you can. And I want you to continue using his wealth concealment practices.”

“Trust me, I will.”

“I
am
trusting you, Daniel. Let me know if there are any surprises. Otherwise, I’m empowering you to get us out of his investments posthaste. I want anyone who’s watching to assume that we’re cashing out and moving on.”

Daniel leaned over to remove his briefcase from under the seat in front of him. He took out a manila folder marked Fielder Estate. “I need you to sign these power-of-attorney documents,” he said as he handed the papers to Wilson and pointed to the removable green arrows indicating where to sign.

Wilson pulled down his tray table and began signing the documents.

“Your father told me you were a rare combination of wisdom and will.”

“Save your bets, Daniel.”

“You should probably spend some time with Carter Emerson when we get back. He knew your father better than anyone,” Daniel said.

“I’ve known Carter Emerson all my life, and not only as my father’s closest friend. He was a mentor to me at Princeton when he taught there as a visiting professor from Harvard. He’s definitely on my list,” Wilson said, wistfully. When he finished signing the papers, they both switched off their reading lights and reclined their seats. As Wilson closed his eyes, he recalled how often his father and Carter Emerson had spent hours in private conversation at the family home in Cambridge.

5

Quinn – O’Hare Airport, Chicago, IL

Comfortably ensconced in the executive lounge at Chicago’s O’Hare Airport, Quinn read the latest issue of
Discount News
while waiting for Wayland Tate’s envoy, Andrea Vargas. She arrived a few minutes after six o’clock looking as if she’d just walked off a runway of another sort.

“Mr. Quinn?” Vargas said, approaching him gracefully on long, shapely legs.

“That’s me,” Quinn said, pushing himself up from his chair.

“I’m Andrea Vargas,” she introduced herself, her large brown eyes glistening with charm. She extended her hand. “I’ll be your personal assistant during the retreat.”

Quinn shook her hand while considering the possible implications of her greeting. In what ways has she been asked to assist me? He chided himself for abandoning his latest attempt to lose thirty pounds, his usual response when faced with beautiful people.

“Someone will be here to get your luggage in just a moment,” she said, looking out the door toward the tarmac. “Is this your first visit to St. Moritz, Mr. Quinn?”

“No, but it’s been a few years. And please, call me David,” he said.

In heels, she was only slightly taller than Quinn’s six feet, but everything else clashed like Waterford crystal goblets and Melmac dinnerware—his roundness, her sleekness; his balding head of mousy brown hair, her tumble of loose, shoulder-length, auburn blonde waves; his bunchy gray rain coat over a stressed navy wool suit, her stylish black trench atop a short, powder blue jersey wrap dress.

After arranging for Quinn’s luggage to be loaded, Vargas escorted him across the tarmac toward the Boeing 767. Two other executives and their personal assistants were boarding ahead of them. The airplane looked like any other Boeing 767, except for the small gold letters on the fuselage near the tail wing. Executive Class was in the business of leasing aircraft and selling fractional ownership on larger jets to corporations. They were also one of Wayland Tate’s clients. Quinn followed Vargas up the stairs at the rear of the aircraft to a lavishly designed interior, reminiscent of an exclusive European hotel. She showed him to a cozy private cabin where his luggage had already been secured at the foot of a queen size bed. A seating area across from the bed comprised a round mahogany table flanked by matching leather lounge chairs. Beyond the lounge chairs was a short hallway lined with shelves holding magazines and books that led to a private bathroom with steam and shower.

Having assured herself that everything was in order, Vargas relieved Quinn of his overcoat and suit jacket, hanging them both in the mahogany closet. “We’ll be serving dinner after takeoff. If you need anything, just press ‘seven’ on your stylus,” she said while lifting an armrest, removing the cordless stylus, and handing it to Quinn. She explained how to access the onboard library of films, music, and financial market information, and then promised to return after takeoff.

As Quinn made himself comfortable in one of the lounge chairs, he found a leather folder with his name on it stuffed in a pocket below the window. It contained a personalized letter from Wayland Tate, welcoming him to the St. Moritz retreat. Accompanying the letter was a small brochure detailing the activities scheduled for the next three days. Quinn read with curiosity. Each morning from eight to eleven o’clock, well-known management and financial gurus were available for small group discussions and personal coaching on various issues and dilemmas facing today’s CEOs. Dinner would be served every night at eight o’clock. Between the morning sessions and evening dinner, leisure time had been scheduled for active or passive pleasures such as downhill or cross-country skiing, indoor and outdoor ice skating, winter golf on the frozen lake, international horse racing, steam and geothermal health baths, body massages, mud packs, or sightseeing in St. Moritz and the surrounding area.

Quinn was still perusing the lineup of activities when the plane reached its cruising altitude. Vargas returned with a dinner menu and handed it to Quinn. “I recommend the scallops. The veal reduction sauce is lovely.”

“When you have a minute, I have a few questions,” Quinn said.

Moving with effortless grace, Vargas lowered herself into the lounge chair across from him. “What’s on your mind, David?”

His eyes roamed over her as she crossed her legs and smoothed out her dress. She was easily one of the most beautiful women Quinn had ever seen.

Men were so pathetically predictable, Vargas thought. They were so easy to fuck with, especially for a woman who looked like Andrea Vargas.

Quinn chided himself for admiring her, restricting his attention to her eyes. “Can you tell me who else will be at St. Moritz this weekend?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said without hesitation. For the next few minutes she thoroughly reviewed the list of attendees by name, position, and company. There were twenty CEOs from major corporations, eight of whom were on the same flight with Quinn. Staff members, private bankers, various special guests, and personal assistants would be working behind the scenes to ensure that the St. Moritz retreat unfolded stress-free with as much enrichment and enjoyment as possible.

Quinn asked a few more questions about accommodations, departure schedule, Internet access, and dress code, all of which Vargas answered. When he finished, he took a few moments to look over the menu. “I’ll take your advice and have the scallops. You can choose the rest.”

During the next hour of their flight to St. Moritz, Vargas presented Quinn with plate after plate of gourmet fare⊠Kobe Beef Carpaccio, a mixed salad with Gorgonzola cheese, lobster bisque with chanterelles, North Atlantic sea scallops with veal reduction sauce and risotto, wine pairings from Napa and Sonoma, and Grand Marnier soufflé for dessert. Although he thoroughly enjoyed the dinner, while listening to Mozart and watching a brief travelogue on St. Moritz, Quinn could never completely let go.

After dinner, he caught up on his latest pile of reading material from the office, interrupted only by Vargas’ occasional check-ins to make sure he was in need of nothing. With four hours left in the eight-hour flight, he told Vargas he was going to get some sleep.

“Can I get you something to help you relax? Ambien? Chamomile tea?” she asked.

Quinn knew he needed something to relieve the tension that had been building ever since he received news earlier in the day about next week’s board meeting. Kresge & Company had been invited to attend the board meeting, presumably to unveil its strategy for breaking up J. B. Musselman. “Sure,” he said, nodding. “Chamomile tea would be great.”

As Quinn changed into pajamas and a silk robe, he considered Wayland Tate and next week’s board meeting. Although Tate’s aggressiveness and manipulative style often made him anxious, Quinn was glad to have him on the board, especially now that control of the company’s future was in jeopardy. For David Quinn, J. B. Musselman was much more than a hodgepodge of distribution warehouses in the U.S., Canada, and Mexico, distributing everything from bulk packages of Fruit Loops to Adirondack furniture. It was the embodiment of everything he’d chosen to become. It was his seed, his immortality. And no board of directors or outside consulting firm was going to stop him from preserving what he’d built.

When Vargas arrived five minutes later, she placed a pot of Chamomile tea on the small coffee table and poured two cups. “Mind if I join you?” she asked.

“Not at all.” Quinn settled into one of the lounge chairs.

“You seem stressed,” Vargas said as she sat down across from him.

“It’s a troublesome time for my company,” Quinn said.

“So what worries you most when you lie down to sleep?” Vargas asked with disarming sincerity.

“Musselman’s stock price,” Quinn said, matter-of-factly. “Ultimately, market value is what every CEO frets about, and right now we’re not doing very well.”

“Based on what I’ve heard about you,” Vargas said with admiration in her voice, “you won’t have much trouble turning things around.”

Quinn was tempted to ask her exactly what she’d heard about him, but he didn’t. “That’s assuming I can keep my company from being dismantled,” he said. “Your boss is a member of our board and he has a crucial role to play over the next couple of weeks.”

“A man in your position could do anything he wanted at this stage in his life. Why do you still keep your nose to the grindstone?” she asked, anxious to get beneath Quinn’s thick exterior. She already knew his net worth exceeded a billion dollars and that his annual compensation with stock options ranged from five to over a hundred million dollars, depending on performance, but she wanted to know what was driving him at a deeper level.

“I suppose it’s the only thing that makes me feel alive,” Quinn said, realizing that she’d made him think beyond the platitudes of his life.

“Hmmm,” she said, smiling while crossing her legs.

“Okay, Andrea. I have a question for you,” Quinn said, suddenly feeling vulnerable. “What exactly does Wayland Tate expect you to do for his clients?”

“He expects me to take care of them,” she said, taking pleasure in the fact that she’d aroused him. Time to increase the sexual tension, she thought to herself. “What I do on my own time is my business.”

“Don’t tell me you’re here sipping tea on your own time,” he said sarcastically.

“Of course I am,” she said with conviction. And she wasn’t lying. Everything Vargas did was on her own time. She was an independent contractor, with enough accumulated wealth to live comfortably for the rest of her life. Contracting her services to Tate Waterhouse was something she did because she loved it—and she was good at it.